


Gallifrey Records: Better With Three Box Set

by cereal, gallifreyburning



Series: Gallifrey Records [15]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:50:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyburning/pseuds/gallifreyburning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when it isn't just Rose and the Doctor anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's the second half of a two-pack of tests they'd bought last year.  
  
Standing in line at the shop around the corner, where the cashiers know them, not because they're the Doctor and Rose Tyler, but because they're in often when they're not on tour, buying bananas and greeting cards and the other mundane things people buy in shops.  
  
They'd laid the box on the small belt running to the till, carefully placed beside a carton of strawberries and a pack of gum, just so it wouldn't be so obvious, and they'd looked anywhere but their purchases as the cashier rung them out.  
  
"Oh, trying to be so cool, you two," the woman had said, and smiled. "This is a big deal."  
  
Of course, that time _wasn't_ a big deal, and they hadn't even let themselves think about it. Rose's pill-taking schedule had gotten jumbled with all the traveling they were doing and it was simply a fleeting thought, as she'd realized she was late. The first test had turned out negative and her period arrived that afternoon.  
  
There'd been talks after of _someday_ , the same talks they always had of _someday_ , sure, and that had been it.  
  
Except that Rose's pill-taking schedule was already off, eventually tapering into non-existent as her prescription expired and she forgot to visit Martha for more.  
  
And so it's more of a possibility this time, more of something that seems like maybe _someday_ has come, completely without invitation, but perhaps not entirely unwelcome.  
  
She's supposed to go out on her own today, some of her vocals needed re-recording and she has to be at the studio. He gets up with her anyway, not because he knows what she's planning on doing (she'd kept it to herself this time, unwilling to seem like she doesn't know her own body again), but because he sleeps less than her.  
  
When she wanders into the guest bathroom, test shoved up her sleeve, it doesn't even feel real. She tries to force herself to look away from the stick as the seconds tick by, but instead she finds herself staring at it, watching as one line appears, and then faintly, so faintly, a second.  
  
It doesn't feel like she thinks it would feel and she assumes that means it's not true. It's an old test, maybe faulty, and she kisses the Doctor goodbye with only the tiniest of butterflies in her stomach.  
  
She picks up a second test anyway, one of the fancy ones, with a digital display, and makes sure to get it from a shop near the studio, not the one near the flat.  
  
If she's drinking more water than usual, it's only because the air is dry in the recording booth, not because she's trying to force a trip to the loo. She tells herself over and over and over not to think about it, not to dwell, not to call by name the things in her gut that feel like hope and excitement and fear.  
  
And then she practically runs to the bathroom.  
  
It's empty and quiet, sleek metal doors, polished tile, and this time she looks anywhere but at the test, pacing within the small stall and unwilling to leave it in case Donna comes in.  
  
When the time, measured precisely on her watch, is up, and she's counted off an extra nine seconds, just to be sure, she checks. A full on look, peering down at where she'd rested the stick on top of the small toilet paper dispenser.  
  
 _ **PREGNANT**_  
  
The test is clear and direct and she feels herself lean back against the wall of the stall, sinking down just a bit as she keeps her eyes on the thin white stick, on its display, on what it means.  
  
There's still the smallest bit of doubt, two faulty tests, that can't be unheard of, surely, and she's not going to get caught up thinking about this just yet, about the future, and a baby, and being a mother, not until she knows with absolute certainty.  
  
She makes a doctor's appointment with a friend of Martha's, someone she knows won't talk, and two interminable days later, days where she skips the wine with dinner and throws out every pack of cigarettes hidden around the flat, the doctor tells her the same thing.  
  
Then he _shows_ it to her.  
  
The tiniest, grainiest thing she can possibly imagine, fluttering rapidly on the screen, and she's six weeks gone, he tells her, if he had to guess.  
  
Rose tries to back it out in her head, but there's nothing significant that jumps out at her, nothing they were celebrating, no special date. Just some time six weeks ago and they'd made a _baby_ , her and the Doctor.  
  
Now she just has to tell him.  
  
~~~~~~

The Doctor’s sitting at the kitchen table, staring at a plate-full of burnt eggs and singed toast. 

Rose is standing at the stove, stabbing at a frying pan full of bubble and squeak with a spatula, like the noises it’s making are insults.  
  
The Doctor can’t decide whether this is better or worse than last night, when Rose made a full meal — roast and potatoes and cabbage, the works — and the panic had dawned on him, wondering which anniversary or birthday he’d forgotten. Because last time he’d forgotten, he’d ended up getting silence from Rose, and an earful from Donna the next day, and had gone out to buy up the inventory of every flower store in a ten-block radius and fill the apartment as an apology. Of course, turned out Rose was allergic to the pollen of a rare species of tulip that ended up beside the bed, and she’d spent the next morning in the hospital. It had been a fiasco all-around.  
  
So last night the Doctor had spent dinner on pins and needles. He’d babbled through the entire evening, and Rose just sat on the edge of her chair, biting her lip and not listening to a single word he said about the Maillard reaction and how her beef would have done Louis-Camille proud, what with its golden edges perfectly seared, and she just blinked at him and opened her mouth. Didn’t say a word. Closed her mouth again.  
  
But Rose is cooking an elaborate breakfast this morning, which means she isn’t angry. _Not yet_. So whatever it is the Doctor’s supposed to be remembering, whoever’s birthday or anniversary, it isn’t over yet. He’s still got time to salvage the situation.  
  
Poking at his eggs, he hazards, “So this is a special day!”  
  
Rose whips around, brandishing her spatula like it’s a weapon and he’s instigated a knife fight. She squeaks, “What?”  
  
“Well, y’know. Obviously, it’s special.” He clears his throat, raises his eyebrows. “You thought I didn’t realize? _Pfft_. Rose Tyler, you ought to know me better by now.”  
  
Rose has gone pale as a sheet, staring at him with her mouth open. She makes a few inarticulate noises, the spatula beginning to tremble in her hand. “You mean — you mean ... _you knew_? You knew, and you didn’t _say_ anything?”  
  
“I didn’t want to let on,” the Doctor replies, picking up a triangle of toast and demolishing one corner.  
  
Rose reaches behind her blindly, drops the spatula into the counter while the other hand comes to rest on her stomach, like she feels sick. “Is it that obvious?”  
  
This conversation is not going at _all_ the way the Doctor had hoped. She hasn’t let slip what the occasion is, his memory hasn’t been jogged in the slightest; he’s obviously still out of his depth, so he prods with his toes for the bottom.  
  
“’Course it’s obvious! Anyone could see. Anyway, Donna and I were talking about it the other day, making plans and everything. Got something special in the offing, just you wait, you’re gonna love it!”  
  
“But — with _Donna_? You were talking with _Donna_ and you haven’t even said anything to _me_?” She’s practically collapsed against the counter, sagging against it as though her legs are about to give out. “I’ve been in a panic the last few days, trying to figure out how to tell you, and you’ve been _chatting … with … Donna … about it?”_  
  
The Doctor brings up his napkin to dab at his mouth, taking his time; his brain’s moving at lightspeed, because he isn’t just out of his depth, he’s in the Mariana Trench. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”  
  
“And you’re okay with it? You’re … happy?”  
  
“Of course I’m happy! Thrilled! Over the moon! Why wouldn’t I be? Definitely cause for a celebration, just like it is every time!”  
  
He didn’t know it was possible for her to get paler, but she does — face pallid, knuckles white as she clutches the counter like it’s a life raft. “Every time? You mean … you want more than one baby?”  
  
“The more the merrier!” The phrase is out of his mouth, self-preservation instinct fully engaged, before he’s fully processed Rose’s words. Well, word. Because there’s only the one his brain trips over, and it keeps falling afterward because there isn’t ground after that word, just infinite open sky. He stares back at her, wide-eyed as she is, and he feels the blood draining from his own face.  
  
“ _Baby_?”  
  
“Oh thank god,” Rose says in a rush. “I’ve been so nervous, and there wasn’t even a —”  
  
“Baby?” the Doctor repeats, and his legs are numb but he stands up anyway, fully expecting them to wobble like a colt’s. They hold steady.  
  
“Yeah, I didn’t realize it was obvious, I mean — seven weeks along now, I suppose maybe I’m showing?” She looks down at her own flat stomach, pats it with her hand. “I didn’t expect that. My pants still fit and all.”  
  
“Baby.”  
  
She grins at him and it’s brilliant, like the sun breaking over the horizon. “So it’s okay? We’re okay? Everything’s okay?”  
  
“We’re going to have a baby.”  
  
Rose’s eyebrows arch. “Doctor, are _you_ okay? You look a bit” — she gestures at his face — “grey.” That’s when it happens, his legs wobble and she lunges forward to catch him, but he catches her instead. On his knees in front of her, arms around her thighs, ear pressed against her stomach.  
  
“You’re pregnant.”  
  
“Yeah,” she replies, the word soft. Her hands slip into his hair and she cradles his head. “You didn’t actually know.”  
  
“Thought I’d forgotten a birthday,” he laughs breathlessly, and he’d feel ridiculous, except he’s flying instead, still falling through the clouds and the ground keeps receding, moving in the wrong direction. “But we’re having a baby.”  
  
“We’re having a baby,” Rose says, stroking his hair.  
  
He grows still, so very quiet, and listens — there isn’t anything, not a heartbeat or a cry to mark this moment as different than any other, but even so, it’s the most earth-shattering moment of his most decidedly unusual life.  
  
“Is that okay?” Rose asks, still holding onto him.  
  
He clings right back, grinning against her t-shirt. With a laugh, he turns his head up to look at her -- she’s glowing, it’s a cliche but it’s true, she’s beaming and her hair is a blond halo around her head, and she’s the most beautiful thing the Doctor’s ever seen. “Rose Tyler, it’s _brilliant._ ”  
  
~~~~~~

It’s the Doctor’s idea, to take Jackie out for dinner and tell her about the baby. Rose is convinced it’s because he feels safer in public — the risk of Jackie hauling off and slapping him is lower. Rose heard him muttering about _shotguns_ and _wouldn’t-put-it-past-hers_ , too, although that all seems pretty far-fetched. Because Rose and the Doctor have been together long enough now, surely her mum can see they’re every bit as in love as she and Pete were when they had Rose.  
  
Rose lets the Doctor make a reservation anyway. He chooses the poshest restaurant in London, bypasses the waiting list for a table with some kind of behind-the-scenes jiggery-pokery and they’re booked for 8:00 on a Saturday night.  
  
Rose has been avoiding her mum for the past few weeks — she’s been afraid she’d let it slip, and she didn’t want to do that until the Doctor was ready. He’d made her promise they’d tell Jackie together, as a united front, and as they walk into the restaurant he holds her hand so tightly her fingers go completely numb. She actually has to shake him off to free up her arms so she can hug her mum.  
  
“Oh, c’mere, you! You’ve been hiding out so long, I thought this one had taken you on tour again without telling me,” Jackie says, eyeing the Doctor over Rose’s shoulder as they hug. The Doctor sticks out his hand for a shake afterward, but Jackie pulls him into a hug, too.  
  
Jackie orders oysters for an appetizer, and won’t stop urging Rose to taste one.  
  
“She’s just not hungry,” the Doctor finally says, groping for Rose’s hand under the tablecloth.  
  
“Well, pardon me,” Jackie retorts, tipping up another shell and emptying it. “I happen to know that oysters are one of my daughter’s favorite food, and there’s no need for you to be pushy about it.”

The Doctor’s leg moves next to Rose’s and Jackie yelps. A few diners at nearby tables turn to look at the commotion.  
  
“Sorry,” the Doctor mutters under his breath. “I thought that was Rose’s foot.”  
  
“And you were trying to stomp on it?” Jackie says. She leans back and crosses her arms. “All right, that’s enough of that. You’re as nervous as a cat in a rocking chair factory, Doctor. So tell me, what secret are you two sitting on? It _is_ a new tour, isn’t it? I knew you’d waltz right back out of London as soon as you could, it’s not like I’m surprised —”  
  
“Mum,” Rose says, leaning forward. The Doctor, who up until this point has been a ball of anxious energy, grows completely still. It’s like he’s bracing himself, because he expects Jackie to launch herself across the table like some sort of righteously indignant missile, intent on annihilating him.  
  
“Mum, it isn’t a tour. Actually, we might be staying close to home for a little while. For around nine months, actually.”  
  
It’s only an instant, the time between when the words enter Jackie’s ears and the significance of them registers, but it’s an eternal instant. The clink of glasses and silverware, the shuffle of waiters’ feet on the carpet, the muted bustle of the street outside, everything is suspended in silence. Her eyes grow wide and she sucks in a sharp breath, her gaze darting from Rose to the Doctor and back again.  
  
“Oh, lord. Rose,” she breathes. “You think you can really cope with two kids? You’ve got your hands full with this one” — she tips her head toward the Doctor. But she’s smiling, one of those grins that can’t be contained.  
  
“You’re not,” the Doctor blurts, blinks, restarts, “you’re not angry?”  
  
Jackie does launch herself like a missile then, right across the table, and the Doctor only has time to get his hands halfway up in a defensive gesture before she has him in a bear hug. “You gorgeous thing, you!” she says, seizing him by the cheeks and planting a kiss on his face. She doesn’t let go afterward, holding him so he’s staring straight back at her. “If you ever let them down, I’ll kill you.”  
  
And at that, she lets the Doctor go and grabs Rose instead. “My precious girl, just you wait, this is gonna be the most stressful and exhausting thing you’ve ever done in your life, and it’s going to be _fantastic_.”


	2. Chapter 2

  
Jackie’s had him terrified for weeks.

She’d started in almost immediately with tales of her own pregnancy, strange cravings and morning sickness and mood swings that would wake the neighborhood.

“That’s all hereditary, Doctor!” she’d said, a menacing grin and a twinkle in her eye. “And here’s me, too much of a drive to be any help! Couldn’t have picked a closer flat?”

If there’s one thing the Doctor knows about Jackie Tyler it’s that if Rose truly needs her, she’ll be there no matter the drive.

If there’s another thing the Doctor knows about Jackie Tyler it’s that she loves to watch him squirm.

And he’s been _squirming._

The first trimester seemed to crawl while they were in it, but looking back now, from the start of the second, it’s like it flew by.

Rose’s morning sickness hadn’t been, ahem, _productive_ , in that he’d rarely found her hunched over in the loo, but she’d gotten nauseated and dizzy in the weirdest places. Car rides and movie theatres and just sitting on the sofa, and suddenly she’d be closing her eyes and curling up against the shifting of the room.

(Jake had come over after the pub one night and it was the longest evening of the Doctor’s life, the both of them rolling around, drunk and pregnant respectively, and the Doctor the only one that could keep his vision level. He’d been tempted to spin around a few times, just to feel included.)

There’d been cravings, but they just seemed to be amplified versions of ones he’d experienced hundreds of times with her – chips, bacon, toffee. She’d asked for them all together once and he’d barely blinked, settling in next to her and risking a slap when he’d snatched some from her plate.

And, now, now they’ve moved on to the golden days of the second trimester and he’s stuck squirming, waiting for the other shoe (a tiny little Converse he’d bought weeks ago) to drop.

Rose hasn’t entirely “popped” yet and has taken to wearing his clothes even more frequently, button-downs stretched just slightly over her belly, and trousers rolled up six times. He has to bite his lip the first time she comes out in his favorite Smiths t-shirt, Morrissey’s face taut over her bump, over his _child._ The way Jackie’s been talking though, Rose could light all of his clothes on fire at any moment, if he doesn’t watch himself.

For her part, Rose seems content to let him run out for food, and do the washing, but any more than that and she gets a little prickly about being treated like an invalid.

(She’s also keen to get him in bed at every possible turn lately, which is, obviously, brilliant. He’d been on the phone with Donna last week, leaning against the kitchen counter, when Rose had come in, undone his jeans, and dropped to her knees, all before he could even hang up the phone. If the part where he and Rose are going to have a baby at the end of it is understood to be his favorite part of this pregnancy, Rose’s libido is as an appropriately distanced second.)

Really, Rose has handled everything amazingly, he’s not once been yelled at for “doing this to her,” and if she’s concerned over the way he folds his pants, well, he’s not particularly married to that style and is open to suggestion.

It’s obviously a bit of a shock then, when he restrings her guitar to be sweet, and she reacts with violent sobbing.

She’s come out of the bedroom to find him with her guitar in his lap, nearly done, and then, without preamble, her face goes red and she begins to cry.

“These aren’t my strings!” Her voice is broken between hitched breaths, eyes watery as she tries to calm herself down.

He’d triple-checked the package in the shop, they are definitely her strings, they’ve just changed the logo, but he feels panicked, like he’s somehow responsible.

“It’s just a different packaging, Rose, I promise,” he says, trying to keep his own voice level.

“Why would they do that?” she roars, apparently angry now. “There was nothing wrong with the old packaging!”

He’s stuck sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the sofa, and he’s basically trapped.

“I guess they thought they’d sell more strings this way,” he says and then changes tacks. “Look, it’s a little lion now!”

He holds up the wrapper, smiling and pointing at the animal. Her face goes still as she zeroes on it, like _she’s_ the lion and the packaging is a defenseless little gazelle.

“I don’t like it, I’m going to write a letter!” she says and he nods enthusiastically, yes, yes, brilliant, letter-writing sounds great.

He discreetly slides the guitar from his lap and onto the floor before standing. He realizes he’s got his hands up in front of him, palms out and facing her and he drops them quickly. Rose is not a spooked animal, she is the mother of his child.

She stares at him for a moment before her face crumples again. “No one cares about letters! I don’t care about letters! I don’t even care about the strings! I don’t understand why I’m crying!”

Her voice is rising in pitch and he rushes to her, wrapping her into a hug as she cries.

It’s muffled against his neck, but she alternates between crying about the strings, crying that she’s crying, and then dovetails perfectly into a rush of words that seem to indicate she will never be able to play guitar properly again because of her giant stomach.

He flops around uselessly in his own mind.

Maybe he could call the manufacturer, get them to ship over every box they’ve got of the old packaging?

Or should he remind her that she’ll give birth and her stomach will go down (making sure, of course, to not mention that’s she going to get much bigger before that happens)?

Or maybe he should just not acknowledge the crying at all, as upset as she seems to be by the fact that it’s happening?

He’s just about settled on a long speech about how much he loves her and how grateful he is that she’s doing this for them when she pulls away, sniffling.

“Chips?” she says and her face clears.

He nods quickly, agreeing with a wide smile before he remembers that the shop around the corner has switched their wrapping from newsprint to foil.

“Definitely chips,” he says. “Let’s call your mum, invite her over, and she can grab them on her way.”

45 minutes later, Jackie Tyler arrives with a wadded ball of foil in her hand, chips wrapped in the day’s Guardian, and a smirk for the Doctor.

~~~~~

The Doctor finds Rose on her hands and knees under the kitchen sink, muttering and tossing bottles of chemical cleaner onto the floor. He watches for a second, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. It’s a nice view, for starters. And he’s also not quite sure if he should intervene — it’s a crap shoot nowadays, whether Rose will respond to his offers of help with gratitude or outrage.

Somehow, she knows he’s there, anyway. “Have you seen the drain cleaner? I need drain cleaner.”

“We should just call the landlord,” the Doctor replies, getting on his hands and knees beside her and sticking his head into the cabinet, too.

“No, there isn’t actually a plugged drain,” she says, turning to look at him, blowing an errant lock of hair out of her eyes in exasperation. “That website you showed me, with all the ways of determining if it’s a boy or girl, there’s one where you need the drain cleaner and a cup and —”

“You’ve already done the penny thing, and the Chinese chart thing, and the ring thing, and four out of six people have confirmed that your bump looks high. _And_ ,” the Doctor says, arching his eyebrows, “it’s only four more days until the ultrasound.”

She huffs again and backs out of the cabinet, closing the door and sitting on the floor so she can lean against it. “I know that. You think I don’t know that?” He sits beside her, long legs bent as his feet come to rest against the opposite cabinets. “But it’s four days. _Four. Days._ I’m gonna go mental waiting that long.”

The Doctor leans over, one hand slipping across her inner thigh while he nuzzles the spot under her ear with his nose. “Do you know what every one of my teachers in school said about me, without exception? I excel at creating distractions. Complete consensus. Although my _methods_ of distraction have evolved over the years — and you seem like you need some distraction, Rose Tyler.”

She grins a little, shrugging her shoulder against his chin so his forehead bumps her temple. “You know what else is going to drive me mental? You, being cool as a cucumber. And you don’t even want to know if it’s a boy or girl until the baby’s born, and I’m going to have to keep this secret from you for _months_.”

She might be unpredictable when it comes to accepting his help with things right now, but she’s entirely predictable when it comes to _this_. Now that Rose is past the worst of the morning sickness, she’s become insatiable — the pregnancy books said something about increased blood flow and a shift in hormones and the Doctor’s done so much research he could rattle off a dozen reasons for it, but he’d probably just kill the mood if he did, so he decides to take advantage of the benefits instead.

His lips find her earlobe, his words a low buzz. “I like being surprised. Finding out early is cheating; it’s like peeking inside a Christmas present.” He shifts his body, turning toward her. Her eyes flutter closed as she tips her head back.

“So you realize that I’m going to need lotsof distraction between now and when the baby’s born, if I’m supposed to be keeping this secret from you.”

The Doctor plants his hands on either side of her hips, nudging her legs open with his knees as he kneels in front of her. “Oh, I’m counting on that.”

She bites her lip and dissolves into excited giggles as he lunges forward, mouth finding her neck and fingers popping open the buttons on her shirt.

Five nights later, the Doctor can’t sleep.

He’s lying beside Rose in their bed and she’s snoring softly, curled up on her side with a pillow stuffed between her knees and another under her growing belly. He’d gone with her to the obstetrician’s office, he’d plugged his ears and closed his eyes as the ultrasound tech told Rose if it was a boy or a girl. And afterward, she’d been beaming — she’d called her mum (the only other person they were going to tell the gender) and whispered a few words, and he’d heard tinny shrieking out of the little earpiece, and Rose had shrieked right back, jumping up and down and quivering with excitement.

“Sure you don’t want to know?” she’d asked him afterward, beaming and holding his hand, arms swinging between them.

“Absolutely positive. Firm in my convictions, that’s me. Resolute to the last. Never a moment’s doubt. I don’t peek at my presents early, because even high-tech ultrasound peeking would be breaking my rule. It’s only twenty more weeks, that isn’t long at all. Hardly a blip on the radar; only the blink of an eye!”

Of course, the last twenty _hours_ since then had felt like twenty weeks. Rose, drifting around the flat in a giddy daze, humming Disney songs to herself and standing in the doorway to the baby’s future bedroom, staring at the blank white walls and the empty corners like she was mapping out a new and exciting landscape, picturing every detail in her mind’s eye. And the Doctor could only see blank walls and empty corners, because … well, because he had no idea what the lay of the land was.

And as Rose grinned at him over supper for the dozenth time, her smile full of secrets, it occurred to the Doctor, what’s the harm in opening presents early? Plenty of kids shook the box and peeled back a bit of the paper long before Christmas morning, and lived to tell the tale.

While the Doctor didn’t think Rose would take too kindly to a bit of jiggling or paper-peeling, he’d spent the last few hours trying to decide how to ask what was inside the package while maintaining some amount of dignity. Because given an inch of opportunity to take the piss out of him, Rose will take a mile.

Lying here in the dark, staring at the love of his life sleeping beside him, the Doctor knows that his dignity is a lost cause.

His arm is stretched across the bed, hand resting on her hip (they’ve always been cuddlers, always slept with their bodies so tangled and curled together they might as well be one person, and it’s torturous, having all these pillows between them). He caresses her side and leans in close enough to plant kisses on her nose and cheek.

Because if she’s sleepy, who’s to say she’ll remember telling him in the morning?

“Mfff.” She reaches up, swats his cheek hard.

“Ahh-hh ouch,” he says, rolling backward.

Her eyes blink open and she wiggles her nose, like it’s itching. “Oi,” she says, yawning and reaching out to gently pat his cheek. “Sorry. Thought you were a bug.”

“No bugs here. Only us Doctors.”

She yawns again, closes her eyes. “Well, the Roses are sleeping.”

He leans in close again, kisses the tip of her nose. “The Doctors can’t sleep.”

“Warm milk. Give it a try.” Her eyes are still closed, but she’s starting to sound more coherent by the second. He’s losing his window.

“Just got something on my mind, is all. Martha gave me a present yesterday, for the baby – a blanket, mostly blue, and I was wondering if you think the baby will like something like that. A blue blanket, I mean.”

Rose opens one eye, squints at him. “It’s a _baby_. As long as the blanket is soft, which I’m sure it is because Martha’s incredibly thoughtful that way, the baby will love it.”

“Right, yes, it is quite soft. Yes. Of course, that’s fine then.”

She opens the other eye; she isn’t the slightest bit sleepy anymore. “I can tell you, you know. It’s okay.”

“Tell me? Tell me what?”

“You’ve got the cat beat, when it comes to curiosity, Doctor. I never imagined for a second you’d hold out until the baby was born. I can tell you, boy or girl, girl or boy. Then you can help me pick out wall colors and crib bumpers.”

“Not supposed to use crib bumpers anymore,” the Doctor replies. “Not safe.”

“You want to know.” She’s looking more smug by the second, and he stares back at her, wondering exactly how much distracting he’d have to do to take her mind off all of this. “You want to know, and I’m more than happy to tell you. But you’ve got to say the words. I’m not going to tell you, if you don’t ask.”

He swallows, and he can feel his pride sliding right down his throat in one large, scratchy lump. “Tell me. I want to know.”

Her face breaks into a grin, her tongue poking out the corner of her lips. “You’re sure?”

“I asked, didn’t I?” he says, snatching the pillow from under his own head and tossing it onto Rose. She sticks out her tongue, grabs the pillow and tucks it behind her back. “I’m not going to beg.”

“It’s a girl,” Rose says, and the information is so sudden that it doesn’t register for a second.

“A … a girl?”

“Yeah.”

He sucks in a deep breath, and his chest just keeps expanding, like he’s going to fill up and float to the ceiling. “A girl.” He blinks and she’s there behind his eyelids, little chubby face and blond hair, brown eyes and tiny hand holding onto his own. “A girl!”

With a noise that’s half-laugh, half squeak, ( _HA!_ ) the Doctor sits up suddenly, throwing back the duvet and resting his ear on Rose’s belly. “Well the kids are all hopped up and ready to go,” he sings quietly, “They’re ready to go now they got their surfboards and they’re going to the discotheque a go-go…”

“We are _not_ naming our daughter Sheena, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Rose interrupts, using a finger to trace the outline of his sideburn.

He grins at her. “Ramona, then.”

Rose shakes her head. “Try again.”

“Blondie? ‘Sunday Girl’?”

Rose snorts. “Nope.”

“Well we’re not naming her Jackie Junior.”

“No argument from me on that count,” Rose replies. “But if we’re going to choose a name tonight, I need some sustenance to get me through this conversation. Run down to the shop for some crisps and Red Bull, would you?”

“Crisps and bottled water, coming right up!” the Doctor replies, leaping out of bed.

When he gets back fifteen minutes later, Rose is fast asleep again.

~~~~~

The idea of registering for things makes Rose a little uneasy.

They certainly have enough money to provide for their daughter and asking their friends to pitch in seems unnecessary and maybe a little greedy.

Of course, their friends, and family, are completely unwilling to hear it and had begun buying up the contents of baby stores all throughout London months ago.

This is how, then, the nursery is currently loosely themed around the idea of a dinosaur-obsessed, music-playing princess with a fondness for the stars and the color pink.

Things seem to just appear any time anyone stops over, but it’s always the fun things, toys and books and mobiles, and Rose has read enough of her own books to know that a baby can’t live on stuffed animals and rattles alone.

So, it’s with that in mind, that she and the Doctor stroll into the largest baby store in the city on a bright, perfect Saturday afternoon.

Well, she _waddles_ in, big enough now that every step feels like Godzilla over Tokyo, and the Doctor bounces in, caught up immediately in a display of brightly colored buggies at the front.

“Look, Rose! This one is for jogging!” The Doctor is kicking a Converse-clad foot at the wheels, trying to unlock the brakes and presumably test it out.

“Have you ever been jogging?” Rose says, leaning already on the small trolley they’d grabbed in the parking lot.

“Of course I’ve been jogging! Jogged away from that security guard in the Tate Modern just last month.” The Doctor smiles proudly as the brakes finally unlock and he’s able to move the buggy.

“Getaways don’t count, Doctor,” she says and he spins the buggy in a circle, frowning as it tips over.

They’ve attracted the attention of a clerk, whose eyes go wide as she recognizes them.

“Would you two care for some assistance? I can help you set up a registry, if you’d like,” the clerk says.

The Doctor rights the jogging stroller, resetting the brakes with a healthy kick and waves the clerk off. “No, no, got it all right here, thanks.”

He pulls his phone from his pocket and Rose can just see the screen as he brings up a list.

The clerk frowns, watching her commission disappear, and tells them her name if they change their minds. Once she’s left, Rose peers over the Doctor’s arm at his mobile.

“What’s all this?” she asks, taking in the alphabetized rundown of everything they could possibly need, brand and model numbers listed beside them.

“You’re not the only one that can read, Rose Tyler! Top-rated baby gear, according to the fine people of the internet, several mum blogs, and more than a few consumer reports,” he says and waggles his eyebrows at her.

Rose is floored, obviously the Doctor can read and he had been spending a lot of time on his laptop lately, but she’d assumed he’d been reading – well, she’s not exactly sure, but she wasn’t expecting _this_.

“I’ve, uh, got my own list,” she says, and reaches into her purse for the spreadsheet she’d created. A lot of the items match the Doctor’s list, but they differ on bottles and buggies.

“We’ll do those two last then,” the Doctor says, pointing at her list.

They make quick work of the purchases they agree on, leaving a few items to tell her mum later, just because she’d been after them – “I’m not going to miss out on buying my granddaughter things just because you can afford them on your own!”

The bottle aisle is daunting and seems a bit like Everest at this point. Rose’s feet hurt, Joanie is kicking like crazy, and the Doctor’s t-shirt smells faintly of a chip shop, making her both hungry and ill in one go.

The Doctor zeroes in on the two bottle selections, plucking them from the shelves and waving them around.

“This one has a leak proof seal and the nipple makes the transition from bottle to breast less confusing,” he says and Rose feels herself zoning out.

There are parts of the Doctor’s day that aren’t about the baby, but for her, Joanie’s always there, moving and punching and samba-ing and it’s brilliant, it’s wonderful, it’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to her, but this late into things, she just wants to meet her.

In fact, she’s wanted to meet her from the start, this tiny little person they’ve created, that’s she carried with her for eight months. Maybe she won’t like either of these bottles. Rose feels a rush of something like protectiveness, a feeling that she wants to let Joanie be whoever she wants to be, do whatever she wants to do.

“Get them both,” she tells him. “She can pick.”

The Doctor’s eyes light up. “That’s brilliant! Should we do that for everything?”

Rose looks back over the store and their already full trolley. “No, no, it’s fine. Let’s get a pram.”

There are floor models out for almost every type of buggy and the Doctor pulls them all down and lines them up, apparently disregarding that they’d narrowed it down to two.

“Okay, I’ll give these four a push, you give those two a push and we’ll see which goes farthest,” he says and Rose is about to protest, completely unclear on how this pertains to the best one, but he seems thrilled and she lets it go.

“Ready, set, push!” he shouts and contorts his body so that he bumps into each buggy at the same time, sending them careening across the floor. She shoves her own two and they watch as one with a removable car seat rolls a full ten feet in front of the others. It is, Rose is pleased to see, her original pick.

“We’ve got a winner!” the Doctor crows, and bounds off to pull them all back, “Now let me just try a few more things.”

He sets to removing the car seat part, testing latches and straps, collapsing it down and reopening it.

It’s so domestic, all of it, and perfect and she’s happy, really, truly happy, for as surreal as it all seems.

Suddenly it doesn’t matter that her ankles are swollen or that they’ve still got to paint the nursery, because they’re going to figure it out, she and the Doctor, they’re going to figure it all out.

And as she watches him pull down the box for the buggy from the shelves, she realizes it’s not just Joanie she wants to meet, it’s the people they’re going to become.

It’s her _family_. 


	3. Chapter 3

He is a grown man, with many, many achievments, awards that say how good he is at things, how handsome, how completely adept in every way.

Obviously he was always going to be defeated by a pair of baby nail clippers.

It starts because Rose washes her hands of the task entirely.

"Nope," she says and crosses her arms as he tries to give the clippers back to her.

"But Rose, her fingers are so _little_ and mine are so _big_ , this is not going to end well." The Doctor's voice is edging into plaintive, and more than a little frantic, he knows, but what if he cuts her?

What if she bleeds out little drops of baby blood, which probably looks like adult blood, but for the way it's definitely going to make him feel like the worst father, the worst _person_ , in the world?

Nope, can't risk it. Maybe she can just grow her nails out, forever. Or at least until she's old enough to do it herself.

"Yes, and her little fingers have little nails which she's going to use to scratch herself," Rose says.

There's that idea gone.

"So you'll cut them, because you're her dad," Rose finishes with a pointed look and he's gripped with the insane impulse to total out the score -- clinging futilely to the number of nappies he's changed, the frequency of walks he's taken her on.

It's not really about that, they're parenting together, they're a team, more than they've ever been (which is saying something), but if it'll get him out of this, he'll try anything.

He opens his mouth, ready to make one last attempt, when Rose gestures meaningfully at herself, index finger waggling back and forth between her breasts and, _oh, if that isn't playing dirty, Rose Tyler_.

There was a time when Rose getting a look in her eye and drawing attention to her chest meant something entirely different. For now, it's a reminder that she alone is responsible for the production and dispensing of Joanie's food.

(He's hoping hoping hoping that they'll leave Rose's upcoming doctor's appointment with the all clear to resume the _other_ meaning as well. Not that he's read up on it or anything, furtively Googling for information on sex after six weeks, reading forum after forum for anecdotal evidence, feeling illicit in a way that's probably usually reserved for internet porn searches. He's not going to pressure her, obviously, but whenever she's ready is the time he'll be ready, too.)

"Oh, all right, I'll give it a go," he says, but he makes no move to pick up Joanie, lying serenely in her cot and blinking up at him like he's not about to go after her tiny little nails with an instrument that feels huge, like pruning shears, in his hand.

"You'll give it a go _now_? Or are you penciling this in for sometime next week?" Rose says with a laugh, and of course it's funny to her, she's not the one about to gamble mortal damage on their perfect little daughter.

What if he nicks a nerve? What if he nicks a nerve and damages her hand and she'll never be able to feed herself or write or play guitar?

This is -- this is practically barbaric, asking him to do this.

Rose bends down and scoops up Joanie, smiling at the way she turns her head to sweetly nuzzle into Rose's shirt.

"Come on then, we can do it in the living room, light's better in there," Rose says and walks out of the nursery, pausing briefly to make sure he's following.

She waits for him to sit down and deposits Joanie into his arms, manuevernig her so that she's propped against him and both of their hands are free.

"Ready, set, go,” Rose says.

He raises the clippers to her nails, holding her fingers gently between his own. She bats him away, barely in control of her limbs, but with enough command to know she doesn’t like being held still like that.

“Well, see, look at this, she’s protesting, that was a formal protest, that was,” he says. “Can’t be going against her wishes.”

Rose cocks her head with a smirk, a look that clearly says _oh, really, tell me one more, Doctor_.

He huffs, “Besides, I can’t just dive in like that. Need to have some build up.”

Rose rolls her eyes, but crosses to the stereo and presses a few buttons. The flat fills with the sound of Arcade Fire, low enough that it shouldn’t bother Joanie, but loud enough that the opening basslines to “Wake Up” lend an air of grandeur to the whole thing. Before he can stop himself, he’s nodding along.

“There, you’ve got a seven-piece band setting the stage, clip away anytime,” Rose says.

And he tries, he really does, psyching himself up with the music, dancing Joanie’s little fists in the air (“Look, Rose! She likes it!”), but five and a half minutes later, the song has ended and there’s not a cut nail to be found.

Rose throws her hands up. “Oh, for the love of -- here, I’ll do it.” She perches next to him on the couch, taking the clippers from him and grasping Joanie’s fingers between her own.

She cuts exactly one nail, eyes wide and jaw clenched, before she falls back into the sofa cushions.

“Should we call your mum?” He’s trying to keep himself from sounding hopeful.

Rose shakes her head back and forth, hair clinging to the fabric of the couch, before reaching for her mobile anyway.

An hour later Jackie’s arrived and he’s bracing for a load of teasing, but instead she calmly takes the clippers, cooing softly at Joanie, and cuts the rest of her nails.

When she’s done, she hands the clippers back to him. “It gets easier.”

For one brief, shining moment he’s got a bond with Jackie Tyler, an unspoken thing that comes only from being a parent.

Then she opens her mouth again and it's gone.

"So, Doctor, anything else I can do for you? Cut up your meat perhaps?"

~~~~~~

 

Rose doesn’t know how long she’s been in the rocking chair in Joanie’s room -- they decided not to put a clock in here, because it’s just plain depressing, watching the minutes and hours slip by when they should be sleeping but they’re rocking the baby instead. Joanie is gurgling and cooing as though it’s three in the afternoon instead of three in the morning, and Rose can hardly stay upright in the chair.

She would swear her eyes are open ( _they are, aren't they? she should be sleeping and holding Joanie at the same time, that's bad, so obviously her eyes are open_ ), but she doesn't see or hear him come in. Not until the Doctor touches her shoulder. She starts and looks up at him, blinking blearily.

“Go back to bed. I’ll take a shift.” He leans down to kiss the crown of Rose’s head as he lifts Joanie from her arms. She doesn’t argue, just stands up and leans her cheek against his shoulder -- a moment of silent gratitude and solidarity -- before heading back to their bed and collapsing in exhaustion.

When Rose opens her eyes again, the bedside clock reads 5:28. The window’s still dark, and the flat is quiet -- not a single coo or cry to be heard, from the Doctor or the baby. But the Doctor isn’t in bed with her, and the living room light’s on.

 _He’s been up this entire time_ , she thinks. For a cruel moment, she almost closes her eyes and goes back to sleep, because she’s so, so tired. From the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes, so incredibly weary -- she can’t remember what a real night’s sleep feels like anymore; she can’t imagine she’ll ever get one again.  
  
But the Doctor rescued her a few hours ago; he didn’t leave her in the dark all alone, exhausted and bleary-eyed. So instead of going back to sleep, Rose forces herself out of the warm, soft bed and pads quietly into the living room.  
  
She expects to find the Doctor walking the floor, rocking and bouncing Joanie; or maybe with a blanket spread on the carpet, baby lying in front of him as he entertains her with one of his elaborate shows, choreographed with stuffed animals and musical numbers -- he uses kitchen utensils as props sometimes, and there are always elaborate dance routines involved. _This is one your mum wrote before I came along_ , he’ll say, and launch into something from Rose’s first album, little stuffed tiger using a wisk as a microphone in one hand and giraffe bouncing as a back-up dancer in the other.  
  
But there’s no floor show tonight. Instead, the Doctor’s asleep, lying on the couch in only his jimjam pants, glasses askew on his face and one arm flung over his head, his hair looking more startled than usual. On his bare chest, Joanie is lying face-down, head turned to the side. She’s in a fresh pair of footie pajamas (which means he had to change her diaper, and her clothes, and her changing table cover is probably due for a wash). Her little eyes are closed and cupid’s-bow lips open as she snores softly. The Doctor’s other hand is resting on her back, long fingers stretched protectively across her tiny body.  
  
Rose stands in the doorway, holding onto the doorframe as she looks at the two most important people in her life, and she can hardly breathe -- maybe she’s so far past exhausted, she’s gone into euphoria, but she is stunned by how incredibly blessed she feels.That this remarkable man loves her, and chose to spend his life with her -- that they made this little person, this little perfect person, and the Doctor adores her just as much as he adores Rose, which is as it should be, because Rose adores her that much, too.  
  
The urge to join them on the couch is overwhelming; she needs to stretch out beside the Doctor, to hold Joanie with him. But she knows she’d wake them both up if she did. So instead, she walks to the side of the couch, kneeling beside them both, and carefully plucks the glasses from his face, putting them on the coffee table. She runs the fingers of one hand through the Doctor’s hair as she strokes Joanie’s cheek with the other. The Doctor stirs a little, shifts his shoulders in his sleep and turns his head the opposite direction.  
  
Smiling, Rose leaves them there and goes back to the bedroom. There’s still a chance she can catch at least another hour’s sleep before Joanie wakes up, and it’s her shift again. **  
**


	4. Chapter 4

  


“Give them to me!”

Pale-faced and fuming, Rose jumps, trying to snatch the car keys from the Doctor’s hand. He’s holding them above his head, far out of her reach, and he can’t believe the words that are about to come out of his mouth, but he has to say them. At least Jackie isn’t here to hear them.

“Rose, your Mum is a perfectly capable and competent person, she managed to raise you from the time you were born, and you survived. There’s no one on earth besides us who will take better care of Joanie. I’m completely certain she has everything under control. She’d have called if there was an emergency. Now let’s go sit down and finish supper, okay?”

Rose jumps again, manages to claw his wrist, but still doesn’t get the keys. “But that’s the point, Mum isn’t answering the phone! What if she’s unconscious on the floor, and Joanie’s crying her little heart out but no one can hear? Or what if Mum tripped and fell on a knife? What if masked men have broken in and taken both of them hostage?”

“What if your Mum’s got one hand busy holding Joanie and the other holding a bottle and doesn’t have a spare for the phone?” the Doctor says, trying his hardest to sound reasonable.

“What if there’s carbon monoxide in the house and Mum didn’t even know what was happening?!” Rose is getting more shrill by the second, and the Doctor is glad this is happening in the little hallway beside the loo instead of in the dining area of the restaurant, because otherwise he’s pretty certain this entire breakdown would be on film and uploaded to YouTube within a matter of minutes.

Rose grabs his lapels, yanking him closer, and he stumbles toward her. Her eyes are wide and shining with tears. “ _What if there are aliens, and they need human babies to experiment on, and Mum was helpless to resist them?!_ ”

“Rose!” the Doctor says, trying not to shout, because the more agitated she’s getting, the more agitated he’s getting. “It’s natural to be nervous, leaving our baby with someone else for the first time. This is perfectly natural, what you’re feeling. But think about it — your mum, she’s good with babies. She’s got a security system at her house like Fort Knox. Even if there were aliens, the minute they stepped on her property she’d give them a tongue-lashing that would send them scampering back to their side of the galaxy.” He lowers his arm, loops it around her shoulders and pulls her to his chest. She closes her eyes, making small sniffling noises.

“I miss her,” Rose says, her voice small.

“Me too,” the Doctor admits. Because as bizarre as it is, they’ve only been away from Joanie for a few hours, and he keeps feeling the weight of her little body in his arms, and keeps hearing her gurgle at the next table over, even though he knows she’s safe at Jackie’s mansion.

“But do you know what Joanie would want, Rose? She’d want you to finish your salmon. And she’d want you to enjoy some chocolate cake for dessert. And then she’d definitely want her mum and dad to do some snogging in the car afterward.”

Rose smothers a giggle against his shirt. “Oh she would, would she?”

“Most certainly.”

Taking a deep breath, Rose says, “All right, we’ll go finish dinner and then do the snogging thing, but on one condition.”

“What’s that?” he asks, kissing the crown of her head.

Her arm, which has been around his waist, darts back at the same time she twists her body around. Before he can blink, she snatches the car keys from his hand and jingles them in front of his face. It’s an impressive move, the Doctor admits later, when she’s got him pinned against his carseat and her hand down the front of his trousers.

“I’m going to be holding onto these,” Rose says. “Because I don’t think you’re taking the threat of alien invasion seriously enough.”

~~~~~

The first few weeks it’s not even an issue. Sex is not necessarily the _furthest_ thing from their minds, but it’s certainly a way off, orbiting somewhere around getting to the dry cleaner and alphabetizing the DVDs.

They’re too wrapped up in Joanie, feeding Joanie, bathing Joanie, getting Joanie to sleep, watching Joanie when she sleeps.

It had only taken a few days home from the hospital before they’d rushed back out to the store to buy the monitor that tracked her breathing, too. And so even when they’re not looming over the cot, staring at her, one of them is glued to the monitor, watching the little metronome cartoon swinging back and forth.

They’d had one scare when the alarm had gone off, both of them vaulting out of bed, tripping over themselves to get into her room. She’d twisted her ankle and the Doctor had banged his elbow, and Joanie had just moved too far off the pad.

“Oh, this’ll be brilliant when she’s 16!” the Doctor had crowed ten minutes later, when they’d finally calmed down and settled in for some tea in the kitchen.

“Really, why is that?” Rose had said, distracted and still trying to slow her racing pulse.

“No sneaking out, of course! No blokes – or girls – with impure intentions toward our daughter will be able to get her out of bed without an alarm sounding. _Brilliant_ ,” the Doctor said and grinned.

“And you know all about impure intentions, don’t you?” Rose felt the air in the kitchen go still, the Doctor slowly placing his tea cup back on the table.

“The absolute impurest,” he said and Rose’s cheeks went warm. They were still two weeks away from her six week check up, the one where she’d get the all clear to resume relations, and she suddenly wished it had come and gone already.

Her body had settled into healing itself, stomach receding, bleeding slowing, and she’d been left with all the thoughts that had gotten them into this in the first place – the thoughts of how much she enjoys getting the Doctor into bed.

But he was being so, so careful, seemingly reverting back to just mates as they inched closer to the check up. Car snogging had been all but eliminated, waggling his eyebrows as she changed into her pajamas had tapered off, all of it, gone and only two weeks before they’d get the green light again.

In the mornings they’d wake up to the sound of Joanie fussing and he’d roll toward Rose for just a moment, nestling in behind her with an arm slung about her waist, pressed together except for where they weren’t, a noticeable space between his lower half and her bum. When she’d wiggle back into him, he’d hop out of bed, volunteering for nappy changing and discreetly shifting himself inside his pants.

It was maddening, and depressing, and she’d told him not to look, told him to keep his eyes forward in the hospital, but of course, he hadn’t. He’d seen it all, the whole bloody mess, and even cut the cord, which was sweet and lovely and she adored him for it, except for how it was now going to haunt them for the rest of their lives.

However moving the opening of “Saving Private Ryan” was, she’s pretty sure it wasn’t very sexy, and that’s what she pictures it had been like – blood and gore and he’s never going to look at her the same way again.

Or maybe it had started after that, maybe she’s nothing more than a mother now, baby attached at the breast and body shrinking back down into stretch marks and lumps and he’s just not attracted to her, that’s it.

And that night in the kitchen, she’d probably just made it worse.

“Are these thoughts anything you’d like to share?” She’d said things like that to him a million times, but never with the amount of uncertainty she could hear lacing her voice then.

“Oh, best not.” And his face had cleared of whatever was there. He’d drained his cup, stood from the table, and announced he was going to get some sleep while he could.

A week later she’d ambushed him in the shower while Joanie napped, kneeling in front of him before he could protest.

When she’d finished, he’d slumped against the tile, eyes darting across her body as she rose to stand next to him.

He’d looked so guilty, so completely and totally guilty, that she’d all but run from the shower, grabbing a towel and darting into the bedroom. That was it then – he wasn’t attracted to her anymore.

She kept it together the whole day, right up until they’d gotten into bed that night. She’d curled in on herself, trying to keep from moving too much as she cried. It wasn’t just the Doctor, it was Joanie and her mum and her own body – none of it felt like it used to, she was a completely different person now, different priorities. It was like the entire world had shifted and everybody else had the script, while she was stuck trying to catch up, improvising her lines and blowing her cues.

The Doctor noticed anyway, shifting closer to her, but not touching, just enough that she could feel the warmth from his body, the slight vibrations of the mattress as he spoke.

“Hey, hey,” he said softly. “What’s all this?”

She tried to bite everything back, swallow down all the emotions she couldn’t contain, but instead they all poured out, she wasn’t a good mum, she missed making music, what if Joanie grew up to hate them?

It went on and on, and she felt completely out of control with it, terrified that nothing would feel right ever again, that she would always be one step away from a terrible mistake, that thought looming constantly, and instead of doing it with the Doctor, flubbing up and learning and laughing together, she was doing it with some new bloke, some best mate type bloke, someone who was no help in reminding her that she was more than a mum sometimes.

It wasn’t really true, of course, and somewhere in the back of her brain was the thought that she was exaggerating, but it did suddenly feel like that.

“And you!” She flipped over in bed, almost nose to nose with him, anger replacing everything else. “Making me feel like some sort of – some sort of leper! Plenty of women have babies, Doctor! And their blokes seem to be able to get past it!”

He shifted backward, pushing himself up. “Is that what you think? That I think you’re a leper?”

His face did look confused, but she was beyond it, she was frustrated and angry and what else was she supposed to think? The closer they got to the all clear, the more hands-off he was being.

“Of course that’s what I think! Bolting away every time I pull out my moves lately! We’re – what’s the word? Platonic.”

The Doctor looked properly horrified then, stammering out his words. “No, no, no, no, Rose. Oh, Rose. I didn’t want you to feel like I was pressuring you! And we still have a week to the appointment and it shouldn’t feel like counting down to Christmas, but it does, a bit, except for what if Christmas isn’t in the mood to come?”

His eyes darted to the side at the last, clearly aware of his innuendo, but he nodded and moved on: “You’ve been brilliant, and you look – Rose, you look amazing, and I want nothing more than to be decidedly non-platonic with you, but it seemed like – I don’t know.”

He’d worked up to a good babble, but she’d said enough for now and made no move to stop him. “And the books said you might not feel like it for a long time, and it seemed unfair or presumptuous or greedy to expect that you’d carry our child, give birth to our child, and hop right back into, ehm, pleasuring me.” He’d gone pale by then, hands fisting in the sheets, and she had to laugh.

”Pleasuring you?” She could barely contain the giggling, shifting up to sit next to him. “Oh, god, Doctor, that was a good one, tell me another! It’s not about pleasuring you – and I can’t believe you even said that, you need to put down the baby books or whatever those books are. I want to be like that with you, I’ve been counting down, too, you know. What do you think the car was about? And the shower? And the kitchen? I want it, too!”

The Doctor’s jaw went slack, stunned, like she’d just told him she was thinking of growing another head.

“You do?”

She laughed again, “Of course!”

She leaned to pull him into a hug, body shaking with laughter.

“That is – that’s great, that is,” he said, pulling back and reaching for the hem of her t-shirt.

“We still have a week,” she said, but her heart wasn’t in it, trailing off as his hands skated up her side and lifted the fabric away.

“A week, that’s perfect, because these,” he cupped her breasts gently, testing the weight as she concentrated on her body, on keeping everything in, and sighing when he pulled away. “These look fantastic. And a week should be plenty of time to properly admire them.”

She grinned. “I might leak.”

He tugged her pajamas back down, “I can admire them through your shirt then.”

It was such a swift change from how she’d felt that morning, like he couldn’t even stand the sight of her anymore, that the smile refused to leave her face.

She pulled him back down to the bed, and fitted herself against him, pointedly wiggling her bum into his hips.

“It’s going to be a long week,” he said, voice only slightly strained, but he didn’t move away.

It turned out to be, relatively speaking, a short week. Joanie slept and ate and they slept and ate, and suddenly they’re in the doctor’s office.

Joanie’s with Jackie, they’re more comfortable with her babysitting now, but Rose hadn’t actually expected that he’d come to this appointment. He’d been to nearly all of them while she was pregnant, beaming proudly at the monitor and drumming his fingers along to the sound of her heartbeat echoing through the room, but this is different.

He’s sitting in a chair in the waiting room, chatting happily to her, when her name is called.

“Break a leg,” he says with a wink and a grin, and she feels flustered, she wants this so bad, wants to settle into their normal life, and what if she’s done something wrong? What if they have to wait even longer?

She enters the exam room, changes into the paper gown, and seats herself on the edge of the table, legs swinging below her.

A few moments later, the doctor enters and before she can process what’s happening, she’s being helped back into a sitting position, and the doctor’s nodding, apparently satisfied.

“Everything’s healing as it should, you’re fine to resume exercising and sex whenever you’d like. We can put you on a pill that’s acceptable for breast-feeding mothers, but you’ll want to use a back up for a little while yet,” he says.

Rose’s brain skips around, they’ll have to use condoms, actual condoms. Are there even any condoms in the house?

She takes the paper prescription from the doctor, thanking him as he shuffles out of the room to let her change.

When she comes back to the waiting room, the Doctor’s eyes are wide as he stands from the chair, looking every bit like a kid on Christmas morning, hoping for a new bicycle but prepared for a box of clothes.

She shoots him a thumbs up and a grin and he darts across the room, sweeping her up into a hug and dropping a sloppy kiss on her neck.

Pulling back, she tugs at his hand and guides him out of the office.

“We have to get condoms,” she says, without preamble, as they reach the car.

“Brilliant, condoms are great, love condoms,” he says.

“We can stop at the chemist’s near my mum’s,” she says, trying to pretend that she’s not ready to lunge at him, right here, as they get into the car.

He pulls at his ear after slotting the key in the ignition.

“Your mum may have indicated that she knew what check-up this was,” he says and Rose feels a spike of embarrassment. Oh, god. “And she may have also indicated that she would be taking Joanie to tea with the girls. And she may –”

Rose cuts him off: “ _Doctor._ ”

He starts the car and maneuvers out onto the road. “Your mum called while you were in with the doctor. She said not to come ‘round until 7 at the earliest.”

She blinks at him, trying to process what’s happening. The clock in the car reads 3:26. They have three hours to themselves, but it’s _right now_ , right this very moment. No time for romantic dinners, or sexy outfits, or – she doesn’t need any of it.

“The chemist near the flat,” she says. “And don’t get anything crazy. I don’t need to smell like bananas for the rest of the day.”

The smile he gives her in return is completely filthy.

After a fifteen minute drive that should’ve taken thirty if all traffic laws were obeyed, he’s bouncing on his heels behind her as she keys into the flat. The little white paper sack from the chemist is clenched in his hand and she can feel it brushing her back as he moves.

When she finally gets the door open, surveying the completely baby-free space before her, she freezes and the Doctor collides into her.

“Is this wrong?” she says, turning to him. “Are we completely mental? Shuffling the baby off so we can shag? Are we – that’s not, that can’t be good parenting.”

He ushers her further into the flat, stopping so they can toe off their shoes.

“Happy parents make for happy babies,” he says. “And I am about to make you indescribably happy, Rose Tyler.”

She moves the shoes off to the side with her foot, considering his statement. What if – what if he can’t though? What if her happiness isn’t quite so easily attainable anymore?

He takes her silence as a bad sign, scrubbing at the back of his neck with his hand. “Of course, we could be happy just watching some telly, if you want. Loads of programs to catch up on.”

She thinks it over, and decides, no, they have to try, she _wants_ to try.

Turning her head to catch his eye, she walks deliberately across the flat, toward the bedroom.

They end up at the foot of their bed, squared off on opposite sides of Joanie’s portable crib, the one they use more often than they’d like to admit, when even the walk down the hall to give her a pacifier seems like too much.

The metaphor isn’t lost on Rose, the way they’ve got this between them and she looks at him purposefully before diving to her side, falling onto the duvet with a laugh.

The Doctor’s still got the bag from the chemist in his hand and he tosses it to her before vaulting to sit cross-legged beside her.

“You going to remember how to put one of these on?” she says, opening the box and ripping one of the packets from the strip, spinning it between her fingertips as she sets the box aside.

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll come back to me,” he says, walking his fingers up her legs and circling the button of her jeans. They’re his actually, but at least she’s back out of the maternity clothes, even if it might still be a while before she can fit into trousers from her own wardrobe.

“Well, if you need any help, be sure to let me know,” she says. “I’d gladly give you a hand.”

He unsnaps the button of her jeans, leaning forward onto his knees so his face looms over hers.

“I’ll definitely be needing a hand,” he says, and kisses her.

She feels herself moving forward into the kiss, leaning up to meet his tongue with her own, and it’s a little like the first give on the lid of a marmalade jar, something shut so, so tight, finally wrenching free. They’d kissed since Joanie had been born, plenty of times, snogs in hallways and on couches and in cars, but more because it was something they did, part of their routine, no aim or purpose in mind.

Now – now she definitely has a purpose. And as the Doctor unfolds his legs from under him, stretching out beside her and working a knee between her own, she can feel a definite purpose as he works his hips against her.

He kisses her for a long time, hands running lightly across her body in a way that’s both wonderful and maddening, because it’s not enough. There’s still clothes, there’s still way too many clothes.

She pushes at his chest, moving him up enough that she can get at the buttons on his shirt. He’s retired the suit jacket for now, after it became clear Joanie saw it as some sort of trigger to spit her dinner back up, so she’s just got to get the button down and the undershirt and his trousers and pants and socks off.

It’s way too much.

She shimmies out from under him, “Just take your clothes off,” she says, not in the mood for slow and sensual and other S words. Except for _speedy_ – she is definitely in the mood for speedy.

He grins at her and hops off the bed, pulling both shirts over his head before moving on to his trousers.

She strips her t-shirt off, leaving the tight vest that’s keeping her breasts in place and, oh, she’s going to have to pump before they pick Joanie up, she can already tell and why, why is she thinking about that when the Doctor’s stepping out of his trousers a few feet away?

She quickly undoes her zip and shucks her jeans, leaving her knickers on as he slides back on to the bed in just his boxer briefs.

He settles between her legs, hitching her knee up around his waist as he leans down to kiss her neck, slow, wet kisses with enough suction that she’s arching up into him, trying to create friction or give him more skin or something.

She claws at his back, and whether she wants up or she wants him down, she can’t tell, all of it – all of it sounds good. She uses her nails more on the next pass, smiling into his shoulder as he lets out a noisy breath against her skin. He nips at her collarbone in retaliation before moving down to ring his tongue along the edge of her vest.

He shifts his weight onto his forearm, worming the other hand between them as he skates his fingers along her knickers, creeping along the edge until she growls at him and he moves to where she wants him, small, circular motions over the fabric that have her bucking into his hand in seconds.

The books, the one he’s been reading and she’s been pretending not to read, they’d said it might be a problem for her to feel ready, but as he hooks his index finger under the elastic, finally sliding skin against skin, it’s clear that’s not a problem she’s going to have.

She bats his hand away and sits up. “Condom, condom, condom,” she says, head swiveling to find the one she’d already torn away.

“I don’t know where it went,” he says, and he sounds so sad, and more than a little panicky, that she has to laugh.

“There’s a whole box, Doctor.” And she gestures to the night table.

“Oh, right, of course,” he scrambles for the box, with one hand, trying to work his pants down with the other, but neither job gets done. She strips off her own knickers and pulls at his shoulder until he lies back. Then she grabs for the box, tearing a condom off before turning back to him.

She hooks her thumbs in his boxer briefs, pushing them down far enough that he can kick them off the rest of the way as she opens the condom.

“Sure you got that?” he says, but his eyes are already fixed on her hands, hips forced back into the bed and she can tell he’s trying not to thrust up toward her.

There’s a comment on the tip of her tongue about sex ed and bananas, but, no, bananas might distract him and that’s the last thing she wants.

Instead she leans forward, giving him a long, slow lick that makes his eyes slam shut and his head roll around on the pillow. Then she slides the condom down, slow and deliberate.

She leans back and surveys her work. “That’ll do,” she says and flops onto her back.

“Rose?” The Doctor’s eyes are still shut and she almost laughs again.

“You on top,” she tells him. “Missed that position.” And she had, she really had, trying to navigate around her stomach had been fun at first, but it grew old, all that creativity, and now – now she can see him over her again, pressed up close, and she wants it.

He rolls over her, dancing his fingers along her one more time to make sure she’s really ready before positioning himself. Well, now she knows for sure which books he’s finished.

He pushes his hips forward, going slowly, so slowly that she grabs his bum and pulls him the rest of the way. It doesn’t hurt, but it does feel weird, does feel _different._

The Doctor doesn’t seem to notice, dropping his forehead to hers as he starts up a rhythm.

There’s a moment where she decides it isn’t going to happen, not for her, at least. The Doctor’s making soft little noises above her, raising in pitch just enough that she knows he’s close. And it’s fine, really, she’s not completely upset, they’ll get better at it again, she’ll adjust to the way he fits her now, it’ll be fine.

It’ll be fine.

But then he stops, peering down at her and his face splits into a wide grin, eyes clear as he says, “Rose Tyler.”

And just like that she’s back in it, arching her hips to meet his and growling out words she hopes their daughter never learns.

He comes a few moments before her, but keeps up the movement just long enough that she tips right behind him.

They try to make another go of it an hour later, limbs all mixed up on the sofa as they work their way through the Tivo, but it ends with laughter and a run out to the chip shop around the corner.

They pick Joanie up and Rose can only meet her mother’s eyes as they’re leaving, just long enough to thank her.

Three nights later, she wakes up Joanie with a shout that fills the flat. Collapsing back onto the mattress, she’s mortified and the Doctor is noticeably proud.

Three nights and fifteen minutes later, she passes by the nursery, and can just hear the Doctor’s voice.

“We’re sorry we woke you,” he says. “But that noise means your mum is _happy,_ Joanie.”

And she is.


End file.
